A Different Song
by Julia9
Summary: (WIP) Set after the AtS finale: what happens after the dragon is slain?
1. Chapter 1

Spike hated to fly. He despised the endless lines and ridiculous procedures. But he found himself sliding his newly acquired passport across the counter and nodding at the balding man who was confirming his reservation.

He checked his watch, six twenty-five in the morning, late afternoon in Rome.

What would she say when she opened her door to find him on her doorstep? Would she laugh? Cry? Slam the door in disgust? Invite him inside? Punch him in the nose?

He played scenario after scenario in his mind, but none helped to ease his nerves. Now that the apocalypse had been averted, Angel didn't need his help any longer and he was out of excuses.

No reason why he couldn't go back to Europe.

No reason why he couldn't fly to Rome and see her – except for the metaphorical heart-stopping fear that gripped him every time his thoughts drifted to her.

She had a normal life now, or as normal as she would ever have. From what he'd heard and pieced together, her life seemed like it finally on track and there was no room for him.

By now Buffy had to know that he was back - she'd probably found out the same night he left Europe – impeccable timing as always. But she still hadn't come to LA; hadn't cared enough to help Angel battle the monster du jour; hadn't even dropped him an email to see how he was.

Swallowing hard Spike picked up his carry-on suitcase and got out of the uncomfortable faux leather seat. He walked down the brightly lit hallway, his footsteps the only sound on the tile floor as he walked towards the red exit sign.

He didn't belong in Rome, because Buffy wasn't his to chase after anymore. If she could move on than so could he.

A grim smile spread across his pale face as Spike pushed open the glass door that separated LAX from the busy world outside. The night air was cool and the streets were shiny – he must have just missed the rain storm.

With a weary sigh, Spike buttoned his duster with one hand and picked up his suitcase. No where to go but back to Evil Inc., he thought as he raised his arm and waited for a taxi.

At least the Poof kept his office stocked with good Scotch.

Meanwhile in Rome ....

Buffy tipped the wine bottle over her glass again, watching the burgundy liquid spill out. She set the bottle down carefully – there was only a little bit left, no sense in wasting it.

Picking up her glass, she took a long swallow staring blankly at the label on the dark green glass. It was good wine – expensive, but worth it.

Leaning her chin on her hand, Buffy watched the flame of the pillar candle burn down. She should have turned on the lights; now that the sun had set her flat was dark and shadowy.

It was strange to be alone so much – now that Dawn was away at school she was almost always by herself.

Buffy refilled her glass, not concerned that the bottle was empty. It was late, she'd go to bed soon.

If she closed her eyes and let her mind wander on nights like this, his face would come to her. She could almost see him coming out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled from sleep and his chest bare. He'd cross the flat and sit beside her on the sofa, carefully extracting the wine glass from her hand. He would move the bottle to the other side of the coffee table, concerned that she'd finished it in only two nights.

His pale hand would caress her cheek gently, his bright eyes staring intently at her flushed cheeks. "You're smashed pet," he'd whisper softly.

She would try to nod but her head would lull backwards, coming close to the edge of the sofa. Instead of letting her head smack against the carved wood, he would put his arm around her neck and pull her onto his lap. She'd curl up in his lap, her head cushioned against the smooth planes of his chest.

"Come to bed Buffy luv," he'd murmur, his arms wrapping around her tiny frame. He'd stand up in one fluid motion, carrying her across the living room and towards their bedroom.

Buffy swallowed the rest of her wine with a quick gulp, trying to ignore the tears burning the backs of her eyes. She rose unsteadily to her feet, holding onto the back of the sofa until she stopped swaying.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she shivered, wishing she could remember the feel of his hands on her body. Nothing worked; no matter how hard she tried he remained a shadowy memory. She found herself searching for his crystal blue eyes along the crowded streets of Rome and longing for his touch when she passed couples.

No one would ever replace him, she realized that – even though she'd tried. The Immortal was the first person she'd been with since Sunnydale and nothing he did was enough. He'd tried to please her but he wasn't used to having to win women over and he'd gotten bored soon after Buffy realized it wasn't going to work. She needed Spike, it was that simple.

She flopped down onto her crimson bedspread with a groan, fumbling in the darkness for the edge of her blankets. Buffy pulled a pillow against her chest, drawing her knees up towards her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around the pillow. She dropped her head onto the pillow and was asleep in a matter of minutes.

At least her dreams were forgiving – her mind indulged her deepest fantasies while her body slept. Sometimes she and Spike were in Rome, tearing through the streets like rebellious teens, or sedately walking through art museums while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She dreamed of them picnicking under the stars – finding a tiny space in an area park where they could spread out a blanket and she could curl up in his arms. They would make love beneath the silverly light of the moon, hidden from the rest of the world by his coat. Other times they were traveling through London, looking at sights from his human life, his face bathed in nostalgia as he relived his childhood. There were nights she dreamed of the future they would never have – of children she would never conceive, of an outdoor wedding on the beach that wouldn't happen, of the anniversaries they would never celebrate. She dreamed of him turning her so they could spend eternity together, wrapped up in each others arms.

Every night she dreamed that they were together again, that he wasn't dust beneath the ruins of Sunnydale.

A tortured sob escaped her lips and she sat up straight in bed, looking wildly around her dark bedroom. She exhaled shakily, running her hands through her short hair, pushing her sweat-soaked bangs off of her forehead. The room was cold but she was trembling – Buffy felt so lost and alone – during the day she revealed in her independence but at night the sadness came back with a vengeance.

She pushed away the pillow that was pressed against her chest and stumbled into the bathroom. Turning on the cold water, she splashed her face a few times, trying to simultaneously sober up and get a handle on her emotions. She wiped her face on the burgundy hand towels, sniffling as she padded back to her bed.

Buffy crouched next to her bed and pulled out a small box. She lifted off the lid, revealing a black cotton shirt crumbled into a ball in order to fit into the tiny container. Smiling ruefully Buffy held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the familiar scent – it was bourbon and cigarettes, that reminded her of him, and a trace of her perfume, a reminder of their last night together.

Before they'd left for battle, Buffy had confiscated the shirt he'd been wearing the night before, telling him that she wanted something to wrap her scythe in. Spike hadn't argued and she suspected that he'd understood – so she hadn't argued when she watched him tuck a scrap of black lace into the pocket of his jeans – they both needed a piece of the other.

She'd left the shirt on the bus and had completely forgotten about it until Dawn pulled it out from under the seat. When she saw the familiar material the magnitude of her loss hit home and she'd burst into tears, harsh sobs that couldn't be soothed away.

Now the scent was more imagined than actually present but Buffy clung to the shirt like a security blanket. It was all she had of Spike, of her Champion.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Buffy pulled back the comforter and slipped beneath the sheets. She clutched the shirt in her right hand, careful to keep her damp cheeks away from the fabric. Her eyes drifted shut slowly and Buffy drifted off into her dreams for the second time that night.

One week later...

"Do you ever plan on leaving," Angel asked, his hands on his hips, a disdainful scowl on his face.

Spike tilted his head to face the elder vampire, smiling like a drunken fool. "Nope," he said, emphasizing the 'p", dropping his head against the back of the sofa.

A half-empty bottle of whiskey hung precariously from his fingers and Angel wondered how one removed whiskey stains from white carpet.

"Spike," he growled, stepping into the shadowy office that reeked like a bar.

"Angel," the bleached vampire replied, his lips twisting in a sneer. "Sit down, have a bloody drink."

He offered the bottle to Angel who shook his head, leaning against the cherry desk and regarding Spike with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance.

"That won't help," he said with the air of a parent reprimanding a petulant child.

"Really?" Spike looked stunned.

"Working now though. 'Aven't thought 'bout her all bloody day."

Angel shook his head again – truthfully he'd like to join Spike in getting sloshed off his ass but someone had to work on putting the law firm back together.

"You have to grow up," he snapped. Angel was frustrated with everything – with Spike and his drunkenness, with Illyria whose questions grated on his last nerve, with the never-ending process of sifting through the rubble of his office, with the construction crews who couldn't get the law firm cleaned up fast enough.

Spike sat up straighter on the sofa and dropped the bottle on the coffee table. He pressed his palms against his thighs.

"You're jealous," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

"Shut up."

"Angel's jealous," Spike sing-songed, taking another swig from the whiskey bottle.

The elder vampire slammed the door to the office as he stormed out. Spike stared at the closed door for a moment before turning back to his alcohol. "Well you are," he sulked.


	2. Chapter 2

For two weeks Buffy hadn't been able to get more than three hours of sleep – her dreams were worse than they'd ever been before. Gone were the simple fantasy vignettes of her and Spike, in their place were dreams that reminded her of the prophetic Slayer dreams she'd had a few times back in Sunnydale.

The most recent one seemed to be of a battle but she was standing in an alleyway, her hair matted down by the relentless downpour of rain with no weapons in sight. She could hear the pounding feet of an army approaching, their voices raised in a roaring battle cry, but she couldn't see anything. Every night for three days she'd had the same dream and had woken up shaking, knowing that it was trying to tell her something.

She paced her flat restlessly, watching the hands on the clock move slowly from one minute to another. It was still too early in the morning to call Giles and she wanted his opinion before she started called anyone else – not like there was anyone else she could call. Maybe Willow, if the redhead wasn't too busy with her latest coven project.

Buffy stalked over to the coffee pot and refilled her mug. She stared with longing at the green bottles in a rack above the cabinets – her wonderful collection of authentic Italian wines – but it was too early in the morning to have a drink.

"Hell it's too early to be awake," she complained, walking into her sitting room without bothering to turn on the lights. Buffy took another sip of coffee and abruptly slammed her cup down onto the coffee table.

Five-oh-one am, perfect time to call Giles – she hoped he still woke up early. Dialing a familiar number, Buffy held her breath as the phone rang once, twice, three times. On the fifth ring a groggy voice answered.

"Do you know what bloody time it is," Giles snapped in greeting to whatever prat was calling him.

"Giles, it's Buffy."

At the sound of her voice, Giles sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes wearily. "What happened," he asked, his voice tense with worry.

"I've been having these dreams," she began, haltingly explaining everything to her former Watcher, pausing for a quick breath before delving back into the story.

Three hours later she was standing in Leonardo di Vinci Airport, her laptop computer in a bag on her shoulder and a small suitcase between her feet. She shuffled up closer to the ticket counter, kicking her bag with the square toes of her stylish and not-so affordable boots.

What seemed like an eternity later she was finally in front of the woman working the counter. After explaining where she wanted to go, Buffy watching the woman's face twist into an apologetic smile.

"Well ma'm, you can't go right to California," the attendant explained in lightly accented English.

Buffy leaned across the counter, staring at the slender woman like there were horns coming out of her curly hair. "What do you mean I can't go directly there," she asked.

The woman, whose nametag read Amelia sighed and launched into the same speech she'd given hundreds of times since the new security features were implemented. Buffy listened, nodding her head as the woman talked, internally reeling that it would take her almost two full days to get to LA.

"Fine," she snapped, waving her hand in front of Amelia, cutting off the end of the older woman's spiel. "So I have to fly from here to Jersey to Georgia to Cleveland to LA?"

"Yes."

"Dammit," Buffy swore. "And there are no flights from Rome to Cleveland?"

"Not until tomorrow."

"Right. And how long's the layover in Georgia?"

"Four hours."

"Great. And it's like a ten hour drive from Jersey to Cleveland, right?"

Amelia nodded and Buffy mumbled another string of curses under her breath.

"Fine," she snapped, "just get me on a flight that gets me to LA as fast as possible."

"Okay," Amelia replied, typing in Buffy's personal information and the corresponding flight numbers. "Here's your boarding pass for the flight to Newark."

Buffy took all the papers being passed across the counter and stuffed them into her leather shoulderbag. "Thanks," she muttered, picking up her small suitcase with a grimace.

She walked through the airport in a fog, going through all the security checkpoints and opening her luggage up for inspection without ever registering what she was doing. Her mind was fixed on one thought, going home.

Sinking onto the cheap leather chair in front of her gate, Buffy stared blankly at the clock on the wall. Her flight didn't leave for another hour and she wouldn't be back in California until tomorrow. But she couldn't bite back the ridiculous smile on her face at the thought of seeing Spike again.

She was going to kill Giles – even though Andrew had told him that Spike was alive, or un-dead, again – as her former Watcher he should have relied the message. .

Buffy couldn't decide what was worse, that he was there and hadn't told her, or that he was there with Angel who also hadn't told her that Spike was back.

"Men suck," she grumbled under her breath, reaching into her briefcase for the paperback romance she'd bought on her way to the airport. Her rage wasn't limited to vampires with souls; it extended to the entire male population of the world, from pseudo-evil computer geeks to ex-Watchers to broody Immortals.

"They all suck," she complained, bending back the cover of her book with a scowl.

Three airports later Buffy found herself standing outside the offices of Wolfram and Hart. She shivered despite the warm California sun beating down on her shoulders.

Maybe this was a bad idea; maybe she should go to a hotel and call the law office from there; maybe she shouldn't have come halfway around the world.

After all, if Spike had really wanted to see her, he would have tried to find her when he was in Rome. Of course the one time Giles sent her on a recon mission happened to be the only time Spike leaves California since Sunnydale sunk into the ground.

"If I'd known that the Immortal was going to be such a prick I'd have stayed in my apartment," she complained to herself, "then maybe I'd 've seen him."

Running a trembling hand over the top of her shoulder-length bob, Buffy took a deep breath. This shouldn't be that hard, she tried to reassure herself as she walked through the double glass doors.

Buffy really didn't know what she'd expected the lobby of an evil law firm to look like, but it wasn't the combination of mahogany, glass and tile that she encountered.

"This place gets weirder every time I come here," she murmured, crossing the lobby to a bank of elevators.

Several men were working on reconstructing a stained glass window on the second level and Buffy stared at the damage curiously. "Looks like there was one hell of a fight," she observed, pressing the button to call for an elevator.

She had just stepped into the elevator when she heard a familiar voice.

"Buffy?"

Her face relaxed into a smile and she turned around. "Angel," she said softly with a genuine smile, as she reached out to prevent the elevator doors from hissing shut.

The dark haired vampire stepped inside the elevator, turning to stare at the petite woman beside him. "You cut your hair," he observed, looking at her short golden bob with interest.

Buffy touched the ends of her hair self-consciously.

"Yeah. Needed a change."

She didn't mention that it hurt too much to look at her long blonde hair after leaving Sunnydale, when the memory of Spike's hands running through it was still fresh in her mind.

Angel bent down to kiss her cheek, his lips just grazing her skin. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and fiddled with the strap on her briefcase. Licking her lips nervously Buffy looked up at his face, surprised at how weary he looked.

"I'm here to see him," she whispered hoarsely, looking back down at her boots.

Nodding Angel pressed the button for his floor, "I know."

"You didn't tell me," Buffy said, staring at the numbers above the elevator doors as they glowed red for each floor.

"He asked me not to."

"And you listened?" She whirled to face him, her slender face twisted in anger. "You never listen to him – ever. And now you suddenly do whatever Spike asks?"

"It's not like that," Angel said, his voice deliberately calm and steady.

"And how is it," Buffy snapped angrily. "You two sit around comparing notes about what a bitch I am?"

Angel didn't answer; he stared straight ahead at the shiny silver doors of the elevator, apparently searching for the mysteries of the universe.

She shook her head, her temper back under control. "Never mind."

"He wanted you to be happy." The words sounded like a lame defense to Angel's own ears, and from the way Buffy's back stiffened he could tell she didn't believe him.

"Like you did?" Her words were dripping with venom and Angel realized that it wasn't just her hair that had changed.

She was different now – harsher or maybe just older – and she looked cosmopolitan with her designer Italian shoes and her designer French handbag. This Buffy was elegant and fiery, nothing like the starry eyed Slayer he'd met in Sunnydale.

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and Buffy turned to Angel, an apologetic smile on her face. "I didn't come here to fight," she murmured, brushing a kiss over his cheek.

"I know," he replied, watching her cross the threshold separating the carpeted floor from the elevator. "Down the hall, second door on the left," he told her, "1507."

Buffy nodded, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. This floor appeared to have escaped the apocalypse unscathed, and except for a few lights flickering at the end of the hallway, it looked perfectly normal.

She paused in front of the door, licking her lips nervously. Her palms were sweating and she wiped them on the back of her jeans as she stared at the plaque to the left of the doorframe.

"1507," she whispered softly. Raising her right hand, she knocked softly on the door. "Here goes nothing."

Buffy shifted uneasily from one foot to another, waiting for someone to acknowledge her knock. If she'd been back in Sunnydale, she probably would've just kicked the door down by now. But this wasn't Sunnydale and she wasn't that Buffy any more.

"I need a drink," she murmured, rapping her knuckles against the door, harder this time.

"Come in."

Her throat constricted at the sound of his voice and with trembling hands Buffy turned the doorknob.

The room was bathed in shadows, curtains drawn to prevent any harmful rays of sunlight from sneaking in, and no one had bothered to turn on a light. Buffy wrinkled her nose at the smell of stale alcohol – the plush sofa in front of her was probably stained with more kinds of hard liquor than she could imagine.

She looked around the room, searching for Spike, not trusting her voice to call for him.

"'lyira? That you pet?"

Buffy bristled at the sound of another woman's name coming from Spike's mouth – but than again he'd moved on with his life, hadn't he?

"No," she said, her voice a breathy whisper that she barely recognized.

The half-open door to her left swung open and Spike staggered through, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hands. He stopped in the center of the room, staring open mouthed at the woman in his doorway.

"Slayah," he asked, his tone a mixture of awe and confusion.

She nodded and Spike burst out laughing. "Now I knows I 'ad too much," he slurred.

Buffy stood motionless, her eyes burning with unshed tears but she'd be damned before she cried in front of Spike. Not like this – not with him sloshed.

Her mouth opened and closed rapidly, her eyes wide and forehead wrinkled with confusion. She inhaled sharply, on the brink of saying something but changing her mind at the last moment.

"Buffy," Spike asked, dropping the bottle onto the floor and taking a step closer to her. He reached out his hand but dropped it before he came close enough to touch her cheek.

"I'm actually going to kill you," she blurted out, her voice an incredulous whisper.

Spike looked at her, tilting his head to the side. "You're real," he asked, "you're here then?"

She nodded, her mouth still gaping open like a fish out of water.

"You're...you're...impossible," she finally spat out, stuttering over the words.

He raised his eyebrows – there was more coming, he was sure of it – wouldn't be a Buffy Summers tirade without some name calling, that's for certain.

Buffy's hands sliced through the air as she gestured wildly between her and Spike, pointing first to his chest and then back to her, a look of confusion on her face. "I....you...but... and then....I....and......we....and.....not....why?"

She exhaled the last word softly, the question handing in the air between them.

"You might want an adjective or two in there," Spike said, "verb might help two. And a proper noun or three." He bit the inside of his cheek, unable to conceal a grin. Seeing Buffy had sobered him up a bit, but he was still riding out an excellent buzz.

"Shut up," Buffy exclaimed, her voiced tinged with laughter - the kind that you broke into when life got too overwhelming and the only choices were laughing hysterically or crying.

"I can't believe you. After everything, you're here and you didn't...you never said."

She clutched the back of her neck, massaging the tight muscles with one hand while the other lifted her hair off her neck. "This is unbelievable."

Her eyes were shiny with tears when she looked back at Spike. "Because you wouldn't do this, right? Not to me – not after everything."

Spike flinched at the accusation in her voice.

"Right," she asked again, her voice breaking as the tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Spike said meekly, opening his arms.

She stepped into his familiar embrace, momentarily forgetting her anger.

"No you're not," she mumbled, her face smashed against his shoulder.

Buffy pulled herself out of his arms to look at Spike, her eyes filled with pain. "And why should you be? You got a second chance – nothing said you had to share it with me."

She exhaled slowly, her breath ragged, and took a step away from him. Cupping his cheek with her hand, she smiled wanly. "I just wanted to know," she whispered.

Without waiting for an answer, she hurried to the door and let herself out. Buffy raced down the hallway and down the staircase, in too much of a hurry to pause for the elevator.

Stunned by what had just happened, Spike looked down at the spot where she had just been standing. "Women," he swore, racing down the hallway after her.

"She won't have to dust me," he ranted, "all these bleeding melodramatic goodbyes are gonna drive me bloody insane and I'll do the job for her."

Spike slid across the tiled floor in front of the elevator bay, stopping behind her. He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder but she turned before he could make contact.

Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears and Buffy stared at Spike, her eyes searching his face. "Why didn't you tell me," she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Because you wouldn't have cared, was the first thing that came to mind but Spike bit back the urge to say that.

"Dunno," he admitted with a shrug, "never got around to it."

Buffy's eyes widened, her mouth set in a thin line. "Liar," she accused, taking a step towards him.

A hint of the old Spike, all balls and swagger, flicked across his face as he stared at the former Chosen One. "Really," he baited, leaning in closer, their noses almost touching.

"You are the most....self-centered, egotistical..."

Before Buffy's tirade could go any further, Spike's hand was on her cheek and his lips were smashing down onto hers. She froze at the contact but after an instant wrapped her arms around his shoulders and returned the kiss with fervor.


End file.
